


Things Unfamiliar

by Loke



Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loke/pseuds/Loke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor is eager for his Loki's attention. In attempting to educate him, he finds their roles reversed, and learns a few surprising things about Loki in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Unfamiliar

The distant roar of the great hall had dwindled into little more than a murmur behind the closed doors of the library. A welcome relief, truth be told. He simply had no taste for such festivities; Loki had long ago learned they were much the same.

The same inane chatter and overloud laughter from men and the admirers who clung to their arms, the women’s laughter much too shrill and loud, as if to compensate for their companion’s wit—or appalling lack thereof, he’d found. The same horrendously off-key bawdy songs that inevitably proved even more jarring than the chords of music that accompanied them. Having to endure one hearty clap too many, or the sudden seizure of his arm by some giggling young woman. Pretty enough, to be sure, but their breaths always reeked of bittersweet mead and rich red wines, and they always took far too many liberties for his tastes.; always clinging to him so. Loki had never understood the impulse to touch that so many of the Asgardians seemingly shared. He would kiss them sometimes, the girls—if it pleased him, and only if he could be sure that Thor wasn’t watching. His brother’s teasing was insufferable, but worse was the way he would look at him sometimes, after he’d done it. It always left him feeling vaguely uncomfortable, and the urge to excuse himself would follow shortly after.

Loki had long since taken to avoiding such celebrations. They were far more to Thor’s tastes, to say nothing of his friends. The thought made him scowl briefly, faint lines tracing across his brow. The library had become his refuge. Here, the celebratory sounds of the feast seemed half a world away. He was free to immerse himself in his studies, blessedly free of distraction or interruption. Loki had only just begun to decipher a particularly archaic runic symbol when the doors to the library were suddenly thrown wide. For a brief moment, the quiet of the room was broken, the noise of drunken revelry swirling inwards with the swing of the doors. Loki didn’t grace the interruption with a single upward glance. The set of his shoulders, however, spoke of his annoyance, drawn as they were. There was the sound of footsteps behind him, the noise of their swift approach his only warning moments before the weight of familiar arms comes to rest on his shoulders. Thor is standing behind his chair, slightly stooped as his arms wrap around him. There is gentleness to his touch that never fails to take Loki by surprise, and he breathes in sharply, quietly.

“There you are.”  
There’s laughter in Thor’s voice, his tones warm and rich. But there’s something else, too. A roughed purr, low and hushed against his ear. Loki tells himself that it’s the touch of warmth from Thor’s breath against his ear that causes him to shiver, rather than his tone or proximity. Thor’s cheek are flushed; lending a faint, high color to his normally pale complexion.

“Here I am,” he agrees. “Where would you have expected to find me?”  
“At the feast. It’s where father expects you to be.”

Thor knows the words are a mistake the moment he speaks them. The manner in which Loki suddenly tenses in his embrace merely confirms it.

“You’re drunk.” His words are terse, distaste clear in his voice as he straightens, returning his attention to the book before him. Or rather, he attempts to. It is a rather impossible task, he finds, when his brother’s lips refuse to move from the line of his jaw.

“Perhaps a little,” Thor admits, his tone lacking apology. His arms tighten, drawing more firmly around Loki’s chest as his lips trail from his jaw to the side of his neck in soft, open-mouthed kisses.

“Thor!” Loki’s voice is sharp with annoyance, though it does little to deter his brother’s affections.

“Mm?” The response is lazy, a quiet hum against the crook of Loki’s neck. His lips part, his teeth scraping across the pale expanse of skin lightly, biting down just hard enough to make him shiver.

“Enough, Thor.” This time there can be no mistaking the change in his brother’s tone. Thor pauses, but doesn’t draw away.  
“Loki,” he begins, his own voice pleading. “Come to the great hall.” His expression grows sly. “Your absence will make the women pine.” It is his last and desperate effort at cajoling him, and for one moment Thor is almost certain of his victory.

Loki snorts. “You’re the paramour, brother. Not me.”

It is Thor’s turn to scoff, then. “Liar,” he murmurs against his neck. Loki’s lips quirk upwards in a smile, fleeting but genuine.

“Ah. Now you’re beginning to understand.”  
His next words are stolen from him within the next moment; Thor’s impatience having grown to be too great. Thor buries his face against Loki’s neck, attacking the skin there with teasing nips and kisses until Loki can’t ignore him any longer; until he’s squirming beneath his affections, twisting to free himself. When at last Thor pulls away, his grin is wide and lopsided. There is laughter in Loki’s eyes, and mischief in his own. And for the brief moment where their gazes hold, Thor is struck with the impulse to say any number of things; to ask him what it was he was reading, to find the gravity he needs to confess to him his beauty—that he loves him. But Loki, a trickster to the end, has always possessed the ability to make his tongue go leaden.

What he says in truth is “Dance with me.”

For a moment Loki stares at him as if he’s gone mad.

“What?”

“If you won’t accompany me back to the festival, it’s the least you can do.”

“I don’t. Dance.”

“You do now.”

Thor’s words are firm in their conviction, carrying with them an air of finality. It is the only warning Loki receives before Thor takes hold of his arm, drawing him from his chair and onto his feet before he can form so much as a word of protest. Thor draws him close, one hand circling behind him to rest against the small of his back. The other lifts to lace his finger through Loki’s own, drawing up their joined hands until their arms are slightly raised above them and somewhat outward from their bodies. And just as suddenly they are moving, swirling across the floor in steps made slightly less graceful by Thor’s drunken state, but dancing nonetheless. At first, Loki is rigid against him, his movements reluctant. His steps always a beat too slow behind Thor’s own.

There is no music. None is needed. The pair of them follow their own rhythm, one that is more silent language than anything else. It lacks grace. That does not make it unbeautiful. And then suddenly Loki’s hand is at the small of Thor’s back, and with a single neat turn, he reverses their position.

“I lead, brother.”

They dance. Thor is content to follow Loki’s lead, marveling at how suddenly he’s come to live as they turn, moving seamlessly into sudden twirls, all gliding grace, as if of one body. When at last they stop, Thor holds him tightly, Loki’s back pressed against his chest, his head tilted back and resting against his shoulder.

“I thought you didn’t dance.”

Loki is silent for a moment, before turning his head, placing a kiss beneath his jaw.

“I lied.” He slipped from Thor’s arms, pausing only once he reached the door. He glanced back only briefly, a soft smirk playing around his lips, before slipping silently through the door.


End file.
